Sorts of Magic and Sorta Magic
by moony's diary
Summary: Hogwarts, 1974: Remus has a wizard for a father, yet he's positive he's too Muggle for such a magical place; then we've got Sirius who isn't quite sure who he is, James who isn't quite sure of Lily Evans, and Peter who, well, isn't quite sure of anything.
1. It's An Honor

You know how this story ends; it's heartbreaking, it's tragic, it yanks at your heartstrings and buckles your knees, and it makes you curl up into a ball on the linoleum floor of your kitchen, with a tub of ice cream (mint chocolate chip, perhaps) and it definitely makes you cry.

Of course you know how it ends, but this is how it begins.

It begins with Remus Lupin: werewolf teenage heartthrob. Er—at least, two of those things would be correct. The third, of course, is subject to opinion, or preference, but come to think of it, it's also what Remus is feeling today: his heart is throbbing today, and it hasn't exactly stopped since the full moon two days ago. But that's nothing unusual for him.

You know he is a werewolf, but there are certain aspects of Remus Lupin's life that you might not have guessed. The first detail of Remus's thus far humdrum life is that he attends a non-magic secondary school.

It's one thing not to receive an acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's another to be awaiting it, to be dreading it, to be questioning the very existence of it, when suddenly an owl slams into your window with a loud, startling crash, and you think _this is it _with intense expectancy and eagerness that are edged with a certain hesitance you can't ignore.

Remus' mum had perked up. And by 'perked up' I mean she dived from behind the kitchen counter, towards the window at the speed of light, shouting frantically, with a huge dopey grin spread across her face. "It's here! He's in! Remus! He's a wizard, like you John! Oh! Right, the owl! Window!"

"Calm down, mum," eleven-year-old Remus had said, massaging his temples in a way he hoped looked irritated, or casually indifferent—one of the two—when inside his blood was pumping furiously. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. "Well, what's it say?" he had demanded, blurted out, once she had opened the window and coaxed the owl to the sill, and it had dropped the envelope from its beak into her hand.

It wasn't an acceptance letter. It stated bluntly that Remus Lupin, being officially registered as a werewolf with the Ministry of Magic, he was not allowed to 'endanger the wellbeing of fellow students' and thus, was not allowed to attend Hogwarts that September. The letter was concluded with a sloppy signature from headmaster Armando Dippet (really just a curvy _A_, a loopy _D_ and a wiggly line, as most adult signatures looked).

Remus' heart had sunk to somewhere below his ankles, perhaps to the floor, or more likely beneath the floorboards and past the basement and into the wet soil of the earth, to join the hearts of his mum and his father, and his old heart, the one that had belonged his younger self when he had first been bitten and first exposed everyone around him to the madness that was his _disease_.

Later, when the crying and outraged yelling from his mother and father had respectively died down, his mum had said, quietly, "why did they even send the letter? Why did they have to remind us?" and his dad repeated the same thing he had been shouting minutes earlier: "They didn't need to send this."

Remus had paled, his own eyes stained with silent tears. He had merely said, "I got what I wanted." His parents looked towards him, confusion evident in their creased brows. "At least I got a letter from Hogwarts," he said. "I've always wanted one, just as proof."

"But Remus,_ I _went to Hogwarts," his father said, placing a hand on his son's arm. "I'm your proof. I've told you the stories."

"I know," Remus replied, his amber eyes holding wisdom too old for someone so young. He took the letter in his hands and folded it up where the paper creased. It was a different proof; it said to Remus that he was magic, just like his father, and that had to be good enough. "But this is mine," he said, looking at the letter. "And, honestly," he let out a deep, shuddering sigh. "Can you say you expected anything else?"

Remus had gone to the same Muggle school his mother had, while his father stayed home to teach him basic magic. He learned household potions and fixing spells, and fighting spells just in case. Remus got through primary school with exceptional marks and praise from his teachers, but with two absences a month hanging over his head. Those were recovery days for nights of the full moon. His parents were friends with a healer at St. Mungo's, which was convenient for a werewolf, and even though most of his small wounds were softened by her spells, a few thin scars still clouded his face, haunting him every time he looked into a mirror.

In fact, Remus is looking into a mirror right now. He is fourteen. His hair is wet from a hot shower; there are bags under his eyes made prominent by rubbing them. His bones feel dull, and heavy yet hollow at the same time. Conflicting feelings are often a side effect of turning into a monster once a month. His parents detest that word and will scold him for using it, but that's what Remus is. Remus is a monster. He knows this; he has accepted this; he wishes he wasn't and it wasn't like this. But this is the way things are, and this is the way they'll always be.

"Remus, dear, breakfast!" the shout breaks through his reverie and he startles a bit backwards, knocking the back of his legs into the side of the bathtub. "Oww," he moans quietly, feeling the twinge in his muscles, before calling back, "just a minute, mum!" and leaving the cramped bathroom behind and padding down the hall in his sock feet.

The Lupin's house has two stories; the rooms are small and cluttered with his mother's knickknacks and framed photographs—both magical and Muggle—and his father and Remus's household charms wash the dishes in the sink. The duster bounces around like it has a mind of its own, bobbing up and down against the mantel. The house also has a basement, of course, with a custom steel door and wall coverings, for transformations.

Such is the house of a half-blood werewolf.

The kitchen is tiny; striped wallpaper; wooden cupboards; rusty stove. Pictures line the wall above the dining table: photos of primary school Remus, baby Remus, laughing Remus, serious Remus, and one of John and Beatrice's wedding.

Bea Lupin, a plump woman perpetually dressed in an apron and a pair of woolen leg warmers she insists are 'hip,' is making breakfast herself this morning. She is flipping homemade pancakes, Remus's favorite, and humming tunelessly. See, when Bea hums without any real tune, this means she is putting up the appearance of someone happy. She can't concentrate on a specific song to hum because she is worried about her son. Remus is still exhausted from the full moon two days ago, but he has to go to school today, or the homework will start to pile up and he will drown in it.

"Morning, mum," Remus says, he, too, putting on a cheerful expression. His bones are aching. This is the pattern of things in Remus' home life: one person pretending for the other who is also pretending for the person pretending in the first place, and everyone is fully aware of the others pretending because that is The Way of Things (Remus wonders if The Way of Things makes any real sense to anyone outside of his family). Masks are worn in the Lupin household. Masks without any malicious intent; masks for protecting, masks like armor. Remus's armor is without chinks; he has built it that way since he was very small, too small to be concerned with wearing armor but needing to, to survive, to protect; it was all he could do.

Remus sits down at the rickety dining table and props his feet on the empty chair across from him, stretching out his calves and sighing in relief. Bea Lupin waltzes over with her false cheer and sets a steaming plate of pancakes in front of him, along with a glass of milk and a jar of maple syrup.

Heavy footfalls signal the appearance of his father, and sure enough, John Lupin opens the basement door and shuts it behind him, brushing dirt from his hands onto his trousers.

"Wash your hands," orders Bea and John smiles, nods and rinses with soap and water, washing away the grime and definitely blood from his cleanup of the Transformation Chamber, as Remus has named it in his head. He tells them he uses magic to clean, but Remus doesn't quite believe him, and thinks perhaps that magic isn't strong enough to remove Remus' stained blood from two days previous. He wonders, wildly, if his blood is different from other human blood. The thought scares him, however, and he shoves it to the back of his mind for later.

"Has this morning's Prophet turned up yet?" John asks conversationally, scrubbing in between his fingernails with force.

"On the counter," Remus replies around a mouthful of breakfast.

John dries his hands and grabs the Daily Prophet from its place beneath a vase of sunflowers that feels out of place in late autumn. John unrolls the paper and scrutinizes the headlines. He is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a long nose and thin plastering lips. His face is weatherworn, with too many wrinkles and lines for a man his age, and graying hair too. Remus suspects that he himself will look like his father when he gets old, without the heinous mustache, though, and more scars.

"Bea, look at this," John says, urgency to his voice. "Look at this!" he flattens the paper onto the counter and claps his hand across the headline. He is eager, which is unusual. Remus pushes away his empty plate and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, standing to see what the fuss is about.

**HEADMASTER DUMBLEDORE PROMOTES EQUALITY AMONGST STUDENTS**, the large writing says, with the caption: **Newly appointed Albus Dumbledore will not accept prejudice by blood status, and vows to treat students equally. **

"Blood status," John says, skimming the article. "He believes muggle-borns and half-bloods should be treated equal to pure-bloods, but what about..." the unsaid word hangs in the air with the pregnant silence that follows. _What about werewolves?_

"Oh. No of course not," Remus says, deflating, his momentary hope dissipating. "I should get ready for school. Mustn't be tardy again."

... 

Remus has one friend at school. Kingsley Shacklebolt is also a wizard. He lives with his father who works practically every second of every day at the Ministry, and his grandmother. Remus isn't sure but he thinks Kingsley's mother is dead. Kingsley is a man of very few words, a man of action. Er, fourteen-year-old of action, but still. The only personal details of Kingsley's life he has ever shared with Remus are as follows:

Number one: "I can't go to Hogwarts. Grand is ill, and dad is working, so I need to take care of her."

Letter b: "I dunno how old Grand is." Kingsley had snorted, rifling through his Daily Prophet. "Old as the wind, probably."

And you mustn't forget: "I like pie. Apple. Not boysenberry."

And that concludes the list.

He is such an action-oriented being that when he suspected about Remus being magic, he had merely walked up to him one day, pulled his wand from his trousers pocket and waved it once, producing golden sparks. Remus did the same with his own wand. They had nodded, Remus had smiled, and that was that.

A few weeks later on a day after the full moon, Remus was at home, eating a bowl of oatmeal while his father lectured about the goblin rebellions. There had been a knock at the door, and Remus had sprung to his feet, eager to escape John's droning tones, and volunteered to see who it was.

Kingsley stood at his doorstep, panting heavily, towering above Remus. He clutched a heavy book in his arms.

"Kingsley, hullo..." Remus greeted, uneasily shifting on his sore feet.

Kingsley nodded, shiny sweat glistening against his forehead. He had evidently sprinted all the way there, and Kingsley was a sprinter on the track team. This was last year.

"Come in, sit down," Remus had said, and Kingsley had marched, marched through Remus's house and into his kitchen and set the book down on the counter with a ceremonious _plop_. John Lupin had seen the title and sworn loudly, but Kingsley ignored him and turned to Remus, looking expectant, even nervous.

The title of the book was: **A Study on** **Werewolves. **

Remus's breath had hitched painfully as he took a step back, shaking his head at Kingsley in disbelief. Remus had been a fool. Of course Kingsley would have noticed his monthly absences, and anyone could figure out the cycles of the moon. Yet Remus's only thought was _why did Kingsley have to be a wizard? _His only friend, the only person he _chose_, was a wizard, and now this wizard knew everything and probably hated Remus for it.

Kingsley had bitten his lip and said, gently, "You never hurt anyone, do you."

"No," Remus said instantly. "Never."

Kingsley nodded. "And that's why you can't go to Hogwarts."

"Yes," said Remus.

"You miss school each month. You have scars. You hurt yourself?"

"Yes."

"You're brave."

Remus had been at a loss. "I—You're—"

"I'm your friend. I'm late for biology."

And Kingsley had left.

Remus loves Kingsley like a brother, like a brother his parents had been too afraid to have after dealing with Remus. Remus's parents adore Kingsley, and Remus reckons Kingsley feels the same. He can only _reckon_ about him, of course, he can never _know _for sure; but that's Kingsley and Remus is a reckoner by nature (though he will never admit it like that, seeing as _reckoner_ isn't a real word).

...

On this particular morning, Kingsley doesn't meet Remus halfway on his walk to school like he normally does, so he reckons his friend is absent. After all, his grandmother has been doing badly lately.

So when he reaches the front steps of school and opens the door, slinging his rucksack over the shoulder that hurts the least, it comes as a complete shock when the first thing Remus sees is Kingsley's towering build. Then suddenly he feels himself being yanked by the collar towards the boy's bathroom.

"What're you—Kingsley!" Remus protests, trying to escape the strong boy's grasp. He manages to get free just as he's shoved into the bathroom; a location devoid of Muggles. "Happy Monday to you, too—"

"I'm conflicted," Kingsley says, his husky voice is higher than usual, but only by a slight. He does, indeed, look very conflicted.

Remus brushes himself off in annoyance. "Why is that?"

"I'm conflicted!" Kingsley repeats. "I don't know if I should be happy, or sad, or both."

"Er—what do you _feel_?"

Kingsley shoves him. "Don't be a _girl_, Lupin."

"I'm not—!"

"Grand died," interrupts Kingsley.

"Oh," Remus says, then cocks his head and adds, "Well, I doubt you should feel happy about that."

"Dad is sending me to Hogwarts."

"You—Oh, oh my god, Kingsley, mate!" Remus stammers, a genuine smile splitting his lips. The 'oh my god' thing was yet another Muggle phrase he has reluctantly picked up, after so many years in their wake. It isn't that Remus doesn't like Muggles, because he likes them as well as anyone, but it just goes to show how different Remus is from other wizards.

"I'm happy about Hogwarts. Sad about Grand," Kingsley concludes unnecessarily. "I mean I'm really, _bloody_ excited about Hogwarts. I'll be in fourth year, with the rest my age, but I'll haveta take the examinations to prove I'm not a complete berk."

Remus makes a conclusion of his own. "That's the longest sentence you've ever spoken to me," he says.

"And the school got a new headmaster," Kingsley continues. "Did'ya see the Prophet?"

"I did," says Remus, his smile falling. "He sounds... good."

Kingsley frowns, reading Remus's tired expression. When Remus deflates like that, it means he is disappointed. Kingsley has disappointed his best friend (a.k.a the worst thing a person can do in Kingsley's book), so he hastens to add: "We will write."

"Yeah," Remus agrees weakly. "Every week." A moment of silence follows. It's not particularly uncomfortable, since these two are used to some form of quiet between them, but it isn't peaceful like it usually is. "When are you leaving?" Remus finally asks, dreading and already knowing the answer.

"Few days."

"Right."

...

This story also begins with a rushed statement; scared words with insecurity behind them and with Sirius Black putting his life on the line in a moment of impulse, of frustration, and of trust.

It starts when Sirius bursts into the dormitory; his sloppy curls a mess, his Gryffindor necktie askew and the first three buttons of his skirt undone. He finds James Potter, his best friend in the entire bloody universe, sitting up in bed, reading a Quidditch magazine. He looks up, wide owly eyes behind squarish glasses. "What's up, mate?" asks James.

"I'm dead," Sirius announces, attempting to run his hands through his hair but getting them tangled. He flails, trying to rid them free, and when he does, slams them onto the mattress of his own four poster bed. "I'm dead, I'm fucking dead, oh Merlin help me. I can't go on."

"Drama queen," James snorts. "It can't be that bad; you exaggerate. Now tell Jamesy Wamesy what's the matter, ickle Sirius."

"You have got to stop giving yourself those ridiculous nicknames," Sirius groans, collapsing onto the bed and reaching for his combat boots. He yanks them off and throws them into Peter Pettigrew's bed to join James's.

"Lily Evans thinks they're cute," James says in defense, giving Sirius the evil eye and saying the girl's name as if she were a celebrity. Well, she is in James's book.

"Evans thinks you're a moron and likes to laugh at you; this is why Evans is ace."

James goes red around the ears. "Sod off, Black," he mutters, cramming the Quidditch magazine close to his eyes. "Damn right she's ace."

"Where's Pete?" Sirius asks, not really caring but vaguely wondering and keen on dragging this out for as long as possible.

"Library," snarls James, still peeved about the Evans thing.

"Library?" Sirius repeats, the tiniest bit baffled. "Our Pete? Peter Pettigrew?" he tries to clarify in disbelief. "_Reading_?"

"Studying," corrects James. "McGonagall threatened to fail him."

"By fail you mean...?"

"String him up by his ankles in the dungeons, yeah." James pauses, staring bullets into the magazine but not really reading anything. "Sirius, why're you dead?"

"H-huh?"

"You came in here, all dramatic, and now you're trying to change the subject."

"Am not."

James sets down his magazine in exasperation, and peers over at Sirius from beneath his glasses. James's hair is no tidier than Sirius's, but that's because it always looks like rumpled bird feathers. "Liar," James says. "Just tell me."

"It's—it's not something I can just tell..." Sirius perches himself nervously on the edge of his bed, forcing himself to face James and clasping his hands in his lap. "It requires, er, some explanation."

"Then explain," James suggests, his tone lighter. He notices how jittery Sirius is and he knows what that means. It means Sirius is hiding something, something bad and huge and it's most likely going to land the pair of them in detention, but right now he doesn't so much care about that. For now, James can only be worried.

"It's about me," Sirius says slowly. "And, you know, er, do you know Martin McKinnon? The Ravenclaw?" He, too, uses the full name as if this boy were famous.

James nods. "Er—yeah, I've got Potions with him. Why? Did you kill him? Sirius, be honest, did you jinx his nose off?"

"That was once! _One _time!" Sirius shouts then sinks back down, gnawing at his lip, which is chapped. He squints his eyes, stammering like the dickens. "Uh—well, Mar-McKinnon and I—we, er—him and me—I—I'm not gay!" he blurts, a blush blooming in his cheeks.

"_What_? What are you talking about, Sirius?" demands James, scrambling up to the edge of his own bed and staring in astonishment at his best mate. "Of course I know you're not. Y-you like birds too much to be." He sounds just a tiny bit unsure.

"Right!" Sirius squeaks, relieved James doesn't think of him as some nancy. "I'm not gay! But you can... You can't argue McKinnon's an appealing guy?"

James balks, more confused than ever. "Are you sure you don't mean _Marlene_?"

Sirius snorts. "Merlin, _no_. Have you seen the shoulders on her? Bloody Amazon, she is. No, I do mean Martin McKinnon."

"Well, he isn't... not attractive. But, I don't think... I mean, Sirius, mate, are you all right?" It's a stupid question, James knows, but he can't help but ask it. Sirius is shaking, past the point of jittery, and his hands are being wringed madly.

Sirius shakes his head. "No," he admits. "Because, because—" he closes his eyes and the words begin to topple out like they have a mind of their own. "Because Martin and I were having a snog in an abandoned classroom and it was really _fucking amazing_ and I _don't_ fancy blokes, but he wanted to and he's so _whatever_, but then Regulus shows up, out of bloody _nowhere_ and he sees us and. And he's going to tell our mum, James, she's going to know that I'm _not gay_ but I sometimes, kind of, like blokes, maybe just a little bit." He gasps for air, opening his eyes and looking anywhere but at James. His expression becomes harder, challenging; he challenges James to say something.

James can't. What is he supposed to say, again? How do you form words with your tongue in the way? How do you make words _without_ your tongue? People without tongues can't talk, right? And has Sirius just told James something huge?

"Say something!" Sirius bellows, pounding his chests against the mattress and then springing to his feet; he lunges towards James and grabs him by the collar. "Say something, you're my best mate! You're my—you're my _real_ brother!" His voice cracks in desperation.

"I—Sirius—it's okay," James croaks, his mind whirling. Of course it's not _okay_, he realizes, when James thinks of the things that Sirius's parents will do to him, have done to him. They've hurt him before, they've locked him up; James has seen the blood and the bruises Sirius tries to hide at the beginning of each year. James knows how much Sirius hates the summer holidays, and always stays at Hogwarts for Christmas, and James knows how much Sirius hates his family with their pureblood mania and Slytherin pride.

Sirius lets go of James's collar and falls backwards into his bed again, holding back his usual groan.

"Tell Regulus not to," James decides, finally. He jumps from his bed and sidles over to Sirius, hesitating before sitting down next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. James isn't one for touching, so Sirius knows his concern.

Still, he flinches away from the touch. "Reg doesn't listen to me anymore," he says, a bite to his voice. "Not since he became Snape's number one fan."

"Slimy brother-stealing git," James deadpans, echoing Sirius' own words during second year. He remembers Sirius's fury, like white-hot pokers seared into his memory. "Sirius, you know I don't care if you like blokes, or don't, or snog a McKinnon—either one—because you'll always be my best mate, right?"

Sirius squints up at James and sniffs gruffly, trying to maintain his manliness but feeling silly. "Yeah, I know," he says. "You sound like a girl though, but I can forgive you this one, since I basically snogged like one today." There's a comfortable silence, in which James watches his friend with heightened senses. "I tried to run after him, but he ran away," Sirius says after a minute, his tone quiet as if he is sharing a secret. He kind of is, anyway. "Regulus, I mean. He didn't say anything, but... the look on his face. I think he was... No, he definitely was. Disgusted."

"He shouldn't have been," James says fiercely, threateningly. "I'd pummel him so hard, your mum would feel it. Would get punched in the cunt. She's a fucking hag, too, Sirius. When you're of age, you can forget about all them, so I say, snog who you want, like boys, like birds, be a whore; I don't care."

He lets out a sigh. "Your cursing always lightens my mood. So, thanks, Jamesy," Sirius says gratefully.

"No, when you say it, it sounds stupid."

"Are you trying to say when _you _say it, it doesn't? Because it _does_, believe me James...y Wamesy. Haha, you tosser! Always cheering me up with your tosser ways!"

"Shut it!"

"Hey, let's play Quidditch later tonight."

"Sure, Sirius."

...

The next couple days pass without much activity for Remus. He merely goes to school, talks to Kingsley while he can, and returns home to bury his nose in a book, locked in his bedroom.

Today is a Friday, the day of Kingsley's goodbye; he won't be returning to school on Monday; Remus won't see his only friend until summer. Suddenly July seems a very, very far away time. Kingsley doesn't hug him, because that isn't something Kingsley does, but there are copious amounts of shoulder clapping and hand shaking and Remus really, deep down, just wants the blasted hug.

Afterwards, Remus walks home by himself. He drags his feet. He lives in a little suburban town where all the houses look the same. He is just starting to wonder if he has accidentally passed his own front door without noticing when he catches sight of his parents outside in the driveway. They are standing next to a tall, thin man with a graying beard and a pronounced crooked nose that Remus can make out even from across the street. He is dressed in long, purple robes.

Wizard robes. This man is a wizard.

Remus breaks out into a run and reaches the trio within seconds. His parents are smiling widely, and saying things like, "thank you, oh thank you, Professor, or Headmaster, I should say."

The man smiles back, though more contained, and his eyes twinkle. They are a peculiar pale blue. "Ah," he says when he notices Remus. A refreshing voice he has, like taking a sip of cold water. "You must be Remus, I take it. So nice to meet you," the man holds out a thin hand and Remus shakes it.

"That's my name," Remus says, stupidly. "Er—nice to meet you, sir."

"Oh, darling," Bea Lupin interjects, bobbing up on her heels. "This is Professor Albus Dumbledore," she introduces. He eye-twinkles warmly at her. "From Hogwarts," she adds eagerly.

Remus takes in the name with recognition and an inaudible gasp. "Oh, right, you're the new headmaster," he says shyly. "It's an honor, sir."

"Likewise, Mr. Lupin," Dumbledore says back, surprising Remus enough to widen his eyes and Dumbledore to chuckle good-naturedly. He is certainly older than Remus's parents, but by how much Remus can't be certain. Dumbledore has plenty of wrinkles, and an entirely gray beard and hair, and he wears a pair of half-moon spectacles. Remus has already decided that he likes him.

No one has ever been honored to meet Remus before.

"I'd like to ask you a question, Remus," says Dumbledore carefully, regarding Remus as a whole. He sees a reserved outer shell, but how Remus's lips curl up in an almost-smile suggest a strongly spirited person just waiting to break through. _This boy would like nothing better than attending Hogwarts_. Bea and John have informed Dumbledore of the boy's loneliness, of his passionate loyalty to his friend and his family. He is brave and just; he likes to help others, teach them new things, and he loves to learn. Dumbledore knows of the immense weight Remus carries over his shoulders, yet just by looking at him, Dumbledore knows Remus will do well in anything he tries.

"A question, sir?" Remus asks, his heart clattering against his chest, threatening to burst through his skin and create an awful heart-bursting mess.

This is when Albus Dumbledore asks Remus the single greatest question in the history of great questions. He asks: "Would you like to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" And Remus isn't quite sure what is happening to his emotions, and he grins wider than he has ever grinned, and says, "oh, _yes_, sir. More than anything."


	2. Where Dwell The Brave At Heart

It's raining heavily on Platform 9 ¾ but its glamour is undiminished to Remus. It's simply magical (it seems only natural that _magical_ should be the only word to fully explain the secret platform at King's Cross). Going through—running directly through—a solid brick wall to get here? Remus didn't think he was capable of feats as great as that. But he knows that running through a brick wall is only the beginning of much more magic to come, much more magic than he has ever been allowed to perform. He beams at his father next to him, and John Lupin's eyes are glistening with happy nostalgia as he wraps his arm around Remus's shoulder.

The platform is devoid of other people and a glimmering red train is steaming before them. The Hogwarts Express has been specially summoned just for Remus and Kingsley, though Kingsley hasn't arrived yet, and knows not of Remus's presence on the platform. Remus wants to jump with anticipating glee, but restrains himself as he always does.

"Excited, Remus?" John asks unnecessarily. He can read his son like an open book, as if all Remus's quirks are footnotes, his emotions are the chapters and his thoughts are the subtext, because every book needs subtext.

"Not at all, dad, not at all," Remus jokes, sounding distracted as he takes in everything around him. "I'll miss you and mum, naturally," he hastens after a moment.

"I know," says John.

"But I've always wanted this," Remus continues.

"I know."

"I'm so, I—I can't even _speak_," Remus shakes his head, half in wonder and half in exasperation with himself. He's usually a tad more articulate. But, who cares, sod _that_, he doesn't want to think about being calm or _whateve_r, because here he is, about to board the Hogwarts Express, and then he will be a fourth year student and all his dreams are coming true so fast he has to pinch himself regularly. "What House do you think I'll be in?" he wonders aloud, biting his lip nervously.

"Maybe Ravenclaw, like your old man?" John suggests, grinning as smugly as only a Ravenclaw can.

"Maybe," Remus agrees, thinking that even though Ravenclaw is a respectable house, he isn't quite sure he fits in there. Secretly, Remus wishes to be in Gryffindor. _Where dwell the brave at heart_, Dumbledore had told him with a knowing wink. If that meant that Dumbledore thinks Remus can belong in Gryffindor, then Remus believes he can. After all, Albus Dumbledore is one of the greatest men Remus has ever known, second only to his father. His loving father, his kind father; his brave father who loves to teach and always makes sure Remus is safe. Remus realizes just how much he's going to miss his dad.

"Whoa!" comes a shout from behind them. A deep, familiar voice and an accent like melting honey; it's Kingsley. Remus spins around and beams at his friend, who is just now tumbling to the ground with a heavy trunk and a caged owl in his hands. The owl is snowy and she squawks indignantly as her cage is clattered around. Kingsley murmurs an apology to her, stroking her feathers through the cage bars, and he straightens up. And catches sight of his best friend. "Remus?"

"Hullo, Shacklebolt!" Remus calls. Kingsley's face breaks into a huge beam, and he secures his luggage in his hands before jogging over to where Remus and John stand.

"What're you doing here, Lupin?" Kingsley asks in awe and in confusion.

"Same as you," Remus grins. "Dumbledore let me in."

Kingsley's jaw drops. "He, he what?"

"Safety precautions were taken, but I can go," Remus explains slowly, taking in Kingsley's disbelief. "What? You don't look—well, I mean, pleased. Aren't you glad?" he flinches in spite of himself, realizing how selfish his words sound.

"'Course," Kingsley says instantly, blinking away any feelings besides happiness and excitement. "I'm glad." He sounds genuine and so Remus relaxes.

"Dumbledore's a good man," John says.

Kingsley nods stoically and agrees. "I like his style."

xXx

After a tearstained farewell (on John's part), Remus and Kingsley board the train as it begins to chug down the tracks, its destination a haze on the horizon. The boys take their seats in the first compartment they find and sit opposite each other.

"The staircases move," Remus tells Kingsley casually, as he reclines in his seat.

"Do they?" asks Kingsley, in poorly contained awe.

"And the portraits talk, and there's a sorting hat."

"How do you know all this?"

"I read _Hogwarts, A History_ all yesterday," Remus admits sheepishly. "And dad told me things."

Kingsley nods, and shifts to look out the window, but says nothing. Remus feels a pang of guilt. Kingsley's father hadn't gone to Hogwarts, as he had lived in some far off country, perhaps Africa but Remus didn't know for sure. But even if Mr. Shacklebolt had gone to Hogwarts, he wouldn't have told his son about any of it. Kingsley's father was far too busy with his work to have anything to do with his only son.

Several minutes pass in silence, until Remus plucks up the courage to say, "hey, Shacklebolt," and prod Kingsley with his toe. Kingsley looks up, his cheek resting on his palm, he waits for Remus to speak. "What House do you want to be in?"

Kingsley ponders a moment. "Not sure," he says. "You?"

"Dunno," lies Remus. He forces himself to remember that he's Remus Lupin, and thus he mustn't go saying spouting out things like 'I belong in Gryffindor. I'm a brave son of a bitch,' because he's much too sensible. Plus, he'd look a right fool if he voices his opinions now, only to be placed in Ravenclaw like his father. Or Hufflepuff. _Or..._ Remus gulps, a scary idea teasing his mind for the first time.

What if he's put in Slytherin? Remus's father had said Slytherin turns out the darkest wizards, more than any other house. What if Remus is put in Slytherin as punishment for being a dark wizard already? Remus is a werewolf, as dark as you can get. He isn't a regular person; he's a monster. Of course he'll be put in Slytherin.

xXx

"Shut up!" James bellows.

"You're not _doomed_, Sirius," Peter's voice says dutifully from across the dark dormitory.

"You've got us, like I told you before," James throws a pillow at Sirius's head. "Now quit moaning and go to _sleep_. I need my beauty rest."

"I've got your pillow now, you git!" Sirius cackles, wrapping his body around the goose feather cushion James has thrown at him and cuddling it. "You're my only friend, Mr. Pillow," he tells it lovingly. "You'd never tell me to shut up, would you? No, no," he coos. He cries in outrage when he hears the sound of James slamming the curtains around his four-poster shut in defiance. Peter doesn't, however. "Pete!" Sirius calls, sounding hopeful. "You still love me, don't you?"

"Too. Lazy. To. Care," comes Peter's muffled response.

Sirius huffs. "Fine! Fine, I'll sleep, if it'll make you lot bloody happy."

"Yay," Peter and James cheer weakly, already drifting into sleep.

"Arseholes," Sirius murmurs into his new best friend, and within minutes of closing his eyes, his conscious is tapering away and his mind ventures into the realm of dreams.

_It's foggy around the edges, but Sirius finds himself in a plain, office kind of room. Looks Muggle. He is sitting in a hard, sturdy chair, which is part of a circle of similarly hard, sturdy chairs. A chalkboard on wheels states: 'Traitor's Anonymous' in pink chalk. Sirius wonders why the chalk isn't white like it is in Transfiguration class. _

_The seats around him are suddenly filled with people. Or have they always been? Sirius cannot remember but doesn't put much store into it. _

"_My name is Sirius," he feels obliged to inform them. "And I'm a traitor." _

"_Hullo, Sirius," the people chorus robotically. _

_A boy sits up on the edge of his chair, leaning in and using a tone akin to a job interview. "What makes you think you're a traitor? That you're fit to be in our group?" His dopey voice and his messy black hair seem oddly familiar, though Sirius doesn't look at him much. _

_Instead he peers down at his own forearms, and chokes on his gasp. "I'm a traitor to my blood," he says. His arms are leaking a dark red fluid; no cuts, no scrapes, no gashes... just blood dripping from the skin like water after a swim. "My poison is in my blood." _

_A shrill laughter echoes around him as he looks up from his arms to find himself in the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It's dank, dimly lit and he suddenly feels a shadow looming over him, but even when he wills his head to turn, it doesn't; he is stuck staring into the spotless stove._

_A pain slams into his mouth from an unseen, but felt, hand. The same shrill voice, like ice cubes breaking, laughs once again. _

"_Stop, please," Sirius whimpers, sounding pathetic, feeling pathetic. "I didn't mean to." _

"_You're a bad boy, Sirius," the woman scolds. "Bad boys need their punishment." _

_Another smack. He touches his lips; they are unpleasantly wet, swollen and puffy. He feels another mouth against his, suddenly, and is gazing into the brown eyes and his fingers are tangled into the sandy blonde hair of Martin McKinnon. They are broken apart with the echo of another loud slap, this time aimed at Martin's cheek. Martin stumbles to the floor and cowers, his body retching with sobs. _

"_No, no!" Sirius screams. "Martin, mother! James!" _

_James is at Martin's side, patting the boy on the back and muttering inaudible words of comfort. He looks over at Sirius and his eyes darken. James is scowling at him. _

"_I didn't do anything," Sirius pleads. "I didn't hurt him." _

"_Your blood did," says James, and then everything fades to fog, and then, darkness. _

A cold sweat awakens Sirius, though he feels hot against the bed sheets. He kicks away the covers and allows the cool autumn night to sink into his pores. He touches his lips, but they are still dry and as chapped as ever. He stomach drops as he remembers the dream with more vivid detail. He shudders and turns over, attempting to banish it away. It's nonsense, of course. It was just a stupid dream; it doesn't mean anything, just that his mum's a bitch, but that's hardly news. He needs to focus on something else to ward away the thoughts.

There's a Quidditch match later today. Sirius assumes it's already early morning by the almost completely still atmosphere about the dormitory. And then, suddenly, it isn't still at all.

The piercing sound of the doorknob turning makes Sirius stiffen and cling to the sheets in fear.

_Holy bloody fuck, _he thinks._ Merlin Almighty. We're being... murdered. It's a hate crime against me. I'm too gay—no, I'm not at all. I'm just too... attractive. Someone's jealous. I'm dead. Oh, Merlin, I'm dead. _

The door opens and Sirius stops breathing. A lanky figure walks in cautiously, tiptoeing.

_Tiptoeing means sneaking. Sneaking means plotting. Plotting means plotting murder. I'm dead. _

Sirius's ears catch the quietest murmuring from the figure. "Empty bed, empty bed," the figure says, heaving a heavy trunk with both hands. "Which is empty... Mustn't sleep on any strangers..."

Right, there's an empty bed in their dormitory, and everyone in Hogwarts from the headmaster to the house-elves knows it is because their previous roommate had ditched them in annoyance after the Great Dungbomb Incident of Second Year. And everyone who's anyone in Hogwarts School of Gossip and Prankery knew of that incident, and knew of all other incidents involving James Potter, Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew: the infamous magical mischief makers called the Marauders. Well, the name hasn't entirely caught on yet, but Sirius reckons it's only a matter of time.

The figure has found the empty bed and has dropped his trunk on the floor beneath it. He has kicked off his shoes. He is peeling back the covers. _Perhaps he wants to save the murdering for morning_, Sirius ponders vaguely as his heavy eyelids get the better of him and he falls back into sleep, just after wondering if the empty bed is still where they store their supply of Fanged Frisbees and Nose-Biting Teacups.

xXx

Sirius hates when James yells so early in the morning like this. But here James is, shouting until his face goes blue, pounding on the posts of Sirius's bed, all the while gathering up his Quidditch gear. Only vague wisps of daylight make their way through the thick curtains; this could only mean that a) it is far too early for Sirius to be conscious, b) Sirius has the most comfortablest bed in the entire soddy universe, and c) comfortablest isn't a word but it is far too early for things like spelling and grammar to matter.

"Wake up! Wake up, ickle Sirius! Quidditch today!" James shouts, cheerfully if not frantically. "We're going to be late, you lazy arse! I heard you talking in your sleep last night, by the by. Also, there's a stranger in the empty bed but I'm not concerned with that, because Quidditch, Sirius! Blimey, you sleep like... like a rock, a bloody _heavy_ rock. Come _on_. Our team needs its best players! Get _up_."

Sirius moans and rolls over, too far over, and out of his warm bed. He slams into the floor face-first and moans even louder. James steps on him in defiance as he makes his way to the small bathroom the boys share. Peter, too, mumbles something about pumpkin pasties and breaks consciousness, rubbing his eyes, his blond hair a rumpled mess and his stomach growling loudly.

"Best get off the floor, Sirius," Peter suggests, spotting the tangled mess of limbs and dark hair that currently make up his friend Sirius Black.

"We've gotta beat ruddy Slytherin! Can't do it without you, mate!" encourages James, spitting his toothpaste into the sink. The sound of loud gargling follows. And then James is poking his head out of the doorframe and glowering at Sirius's unmoving form. "You're not dead," he says sternly.

"You sure about that?" Sirius croaks, his voice scratchy with sleep and the vague echoes of his nightmares. "I feel horrible. No, I _am_ horrible. I'm worthless."

James flings his toothbrush away in anger and suddenly drops to his knees and tugs Sirius's head up, shaggy hair and all. He glares ferociously at his best friend, his minty breath hot and unpleasant in Sirius's face. "You're a bloody dramatic," James snarls, teeth bared. "You chew with your mouth open, you're confused a lot of the time and you sing like a dying animal. You point out my flaws and I point out yours. But you're _not_ fucking horrible, Sirius. And you have more _worth_ than your entire family put together. Get that through your thick skull, all right, yeah?" He sucks in his gut and drops Sirius's head. Sirius lets it droop while James gets to his feet, and then his eyes remain on James's untied trainers. "Now get ready for the match because you're the best keeper in the school and we need you out there, mate."

James, in a determined kind of fury, collects Sirius's sports robes in his arms and kicks open the dormitory door. Sirius and Peter hear the sound of quick footfalls down the stairs and then silence. Peter, still in an early morning haze, looks to Sirius with his mouth slightly agape. Sirius looks up, avoids Peter's gaze, and wills himself to stand. Slowly, grudgingly, he drags his feet across the dormitory floor and towards the door.

Just as Sirius is leaving, a lanky figure in the bed furthest from the door catches his eye just barely, as the body shifts around and stretches out, but he slams the door before his curiosity can stop him in his tracks.

Remus Lupin unfurls his body, comfortably tangled in the bed things. He yawns widely, like a cat after a satisfied nap and then he remembers where he is, why this bed is so much cushier than his one at home. And it feels like he is still sleeping. It feels like a dream. It feels like a fairytale. It feels like Remus has been dropped into one of John's old bedtime stories that he'd stopped telling after a while. Remus feels ten years old again, wrapped completely in the magic of it all, and the most fantastical part? It _isn't_ a dream; it's real, it's happening. Remus is a wizard. Remus is a _Gryffindor_. Just like he'd wanted.

He recalls it now, smiling in spite of himself into his pillow, his eyes still closed peacefully. A thin-lipped woman of a classy sort of beauty, wearing a silken witches hat, had greeted him and Kingsley when they had arrived at Hogwarts the night before. Her name was, _is,_ Minerva McGonagall and she teaches Transfiguration. What's really spectacular about her though, is that when they first laid eyes on her, she was taking the form of a tabby cat with spectacle markings. Soon after scratching the cat's ears affectionately, McGonagall had sprung to life before them.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she had said, her voice stern and her words practiced. They had been shocked, yet endlessly impressed. Remus had laughed.

Kingsley and Remus joined McGonagall in carriages pulled by nothing at all, and they rode to Hogwarts. It's a grand castle; just like in all the books. The building was a marvelous sort of magic itself, with towers that seemed to scrape the night sky—the night sky that was strewn with constellations, millions of tiny pinpricks in the dark bluish black curtain. Remus didn't make out much of the building, since it was so dark, and the stars were temptingly beautiful, but he knew it was bigger than anything he'd ever seen.

The inside of the castle was better. John hadn't been lying about the portraits; their painted occupants greeted Kingsley and Remus like old friends. "How do you do this evening?" a gentleman asked Kingsley. "What do you think of Hogwarts?" and Kingsley had smiled and said, "It is ...sublime."

And it was. And it still is. And Remus had been sorted into Gryffindor in what had been a private little ceremony. After a statue had sprung to life and allowed them to enter, McGonagall had taken them up to the headmaster's office. Dumbledore had welcomed them officially, and gave them a small speech. Certain corridors were off-limits, lessons started Monday, have all their books been bought, be sure to watch the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match the following morning, and so on.

Even Remus's little monthly situation has been taken care of. Dumbledore had taken him aside, while McGonagall placed the sorting hat on Kingsley's bald head (it _talked_ by the way. I mean the hat, not Kingsley's head). Dumbledore had said, "We've planted a new tree this year, Mr. Lupin. I've named it the Whomping Willow."

"Er—that's great, professor," Remus said, his eyes flicking between Dumbledore and Kingsley. And then the hat let out an enormous roar, declaring Kingsley Shacklebolt a Hufflepuff. Kingsley grinned, and looked over at Remus, seeking approval and receiving it in the form of a toothy smile and a thumbs-up. Remus turned back to Dumbledore an asked, "but what does a tree have to do with... me?"

Dumbledore had twinkled his eyes in the signature way of his and went on to explain the significance of their new monstrous tree friend. The Whomping Willow hid a secret passageway that led to a secure place where Remus could transform each month. It is secluded. It sounds mysterious, and cool, and Remus secretly likes the secret passageway idea a whole lot, possibly because of latter reasons, but he isn't really sure. The Whomping Willow got its name not just because the words struck Dumbledore's fancy, but because its limbs go thrashing and crashing about at anyone who approaches it, unless they know the direct place on a curly tree knot to press, and Remus does.

"Thank you so much, for everything," he really couldn't say enough.

Then it was time for his turn with the hat. It had taken a whole five minutes, muttering to itself with its flapping fabric mouth. It had pondered Ravenclaw, from what little Remus could make out, but it never voiced anything about Slytherin. Remus was grateful, and he was thrilled when the hat had placed him in Gryffindor.

_Where dwell the brave at heart. _

Remus finally opens his eyes, taking in the crimson bed hangings with a smile. As he sits up, he is welcomed into Gryffindor House by a loud, terrified yelp, and his smile is wiped from his face and his head whirls around in shock.

"Aah!" yelps Peter, scrambling backwards on his bed and fumbling with the sheets caught around his feet.

"Aah," Remus echoes, his shock subsiding and melting into awkward.

"Who the bloody _hell _are you?" Peter demands, finally freeing his feet and stumbling off the bed. He raises his fists in an act of defensive. "Why're you sleeping here? Are you homeless?"

"Not homeless," assures Remus, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm a new student. Remus Lupin. Fourth year. Nice to meet you."

"Bloody hell," Peter repeats, lowering his fists slowly, but Remus notices he keeps them balled at his sides and his lip quivers slightly. "I'm Peter. Pettigrew. You sure you're in Gryffindor?" he asks, regarding Remus suspiciously.

"What? Yes, of course," says Remus, nonplussed. "That's what the talking hat said, anyway."

Peter stares him down a second longer, before breaking into a snort, which escalades into full-on laughter. His hefty belly jiggles like Father Christmas as he attempts to contain his mirth. "Wow," he chokes out, wiping a tear from the corner of his beady eye. "Hm. Er. Well, nice to meet you, Lupin."

Remus is silent, awkwardly shifting in his bed. His entire life has been big awkward moment, at least it is when people his age are involved. They always seem to make everything harder. Remus silently wishes he could be an adult, then quickly takes it back. He doesn't want that. He wants this; Hogwarts is what he has always wanted.

Peter strolls over to the bed and claps him on the shoulder, Remus buckles under the weight of his meaty hand. "Wanna see my mates crush Slytherin?" he asks genially, though Remus thinks the words are edged slightly in malice. "Quidditch match today. I'll paint your face."

xXx

"Lupin, where'd you get off to? Remus?"

"I'm here, Peter, sorry!" Remus appears from between a few stray students in the gaggle on the steep staircase that lead from the ground up to the highest balcony in the stands, which are incased in scarlet and gold banners, rather like wrapping paper.

"Aw, don't apologize," says Peter, sounding tired. "I'm used to getting ditched."

"I wasn't ditching you," Remus says quickly, honestly.

"Oh, you weren't? Thanks," Peter looks grateful for perhaps two seconds before gesturing to the row in front of them. "Hey, let's sit up in the front row. Best view. We might get bled on."

"That's... fine. Yeah, sure," Remus concedes, and he and Peter shift down the narrow isle of rickety seats and plop themselves down.

Peter is dressed similarly to their entire section of the Quidditch Pitch: the Gryffindor section (wow, Remus still can't get over it). Peter's chubby cheeks are painted with crimson stripes and the letter G is emblazoned in gold on his forehead. Remus had denied face paint at breakfast, too fascinated by the Great Hall and his delicious breakfast that had appeared on the plates from an unknown place; Peter had mentioned something about elves, but Remus wasn't fully listening. Peter had loaned Remus a Gryffindor t-shirt of his roommate's to wear—Remus had thought it was awkward, wearing another boy's clothing, but Peter had insisted, saying the boy wouldn't care, or hardly notice. Remus had agreed, though reluctantly. But he hadn't allowed Peter to paint his face.

Remus turns his head to gape at his surroundings some more. He's rather high up, much higher than he's used to anyway, but not quite as high as the three circular goal posts on either side of the pitch. Remus has only heard a small bit about this wizarding sport. His father isn't much of a fan. But Remus knows that Quidditch is played on broomsticks, broomsticks like his mum uses to sweep the dust bunnies up. Broomsticks like he used to pretend to fly around the backyard, though those had been Muggle. These ones, the ones he would be seeing today, would fly for real. Remus wonders how it feels to fly.

Sirius has never gotten used to flying, per se. He also has never gotten used to the phrase 'per se' because his mother uses it and if he mother uses it, it must be pretentious. Sirius prides himself on being the opposite of pretentious, which, if you'll look up in the thesaurus means snobby, and the opposite of the word snobby, if you'll look up in the antonym-book-that-doesn't-exist, is Sirius Black.

Sirius hasn't gotten used to flying on a broomstick because it feels exactly how it sounds. The _flying_ bit is exhilarating and a rush and the best thing in the world, besides (he has to ponder about this for a moment before it comes to him) motorbikes (Well now, if he could make a _flying_ motorbike, all would be right with the world). The _broomstick_ bit may cause chaffing (Quidditch Player Rash is certainly _not_ something anybody ever wants to see, hear about, or think about, let alone have) and it's ruddy uncomfortable is what it is. Plus you are clinging to this, this _broomstick_, for crying out loud, and if you make one wrong swerve, you will end up on your arse, and everybody will be staring down at you from twenty yards up.

Still, Quidditch is ace; and Sirius and James are brilliant at it.

Sirius is starting to feel the excitement around him that only a Quidditch match can bring as he laces up his trainers and secures his keeper uniform. He used to be a beater, which he liked better, because he got to hit things, hard, and by things Sirius means people (and by people he means Slytherins). And yes, he feels the excitement in the aura of his teammates, but Sirius can't bring himself to be excited with them. Instead he feels nervous, an unusual thing for him, and rather like vomiting.

James is Seeker. Always has been (since second year) and always will be. At least he _hopes _he will stay Seeker, because long boy-meets-Seeking-story short: he loves it. The Golden Snitch is his and his alone; he has a certain eye for it; a knack for it. Lily Evans, who insists on making fun of him ("out of love," James always says, "she's just pulling my pigtails!"), wonders how James can even catch sight of the tiny glint of gold when his eyesight is so poor he needs glasses meant for senior citizen wizards. James silently wonders the same, yet he doesn't dwell on it. After all, Gryffindor hasn't lost a match since James Potter joined the team.

"Ready to win, team?" their captain, Caradoc Dearborn, asks. Caradoc is a strapping sixth year student, with a sharp wit, a nose to match, and heavy, dark eyebrows. He laughs easily, and always has this wicked glint in his eye that frightens Peter but James likes rather a lot.

"Are we _ready_?" James repeats, mockingly baffled. "Uh, Dearborn, tell me again, what am I supposed to do with this stick...? And why are you putting yours between your legs! I'm not ready for this, we haven't made public our affair, don't pressure me into—"

Caradoc cuts James off with a bark of obligatory laughter and a shake of his head. James grins and mounts his broom, looking sideways at Sirius who is standing stock still, clutching his broom in his hands and staring into space. "Sirius, we've got a match to win," James reminds him gently but with a certain force, and quietly so no one else can here. "You've got goal posts to keep. Don't screw this up. Concentrate."

Sirius seems to shake himself out of it, for he nods and his mouth muscles force into a smile. "Right. Concentration is key," he says, lacking conviction.

"Concentration is key!" Caradoc barks at the rest of them, causing Sirius to jump. "I've no time for a pep talk this morning, just go out there and do your ruddy best. Hear me?"

"Let's kill Slytherin!" a female player shouts, winning a bout of tumultuous cheering. Her name is Dorcas Meadowes. She has pin-straight blonde hair that seems to singe at the tips when she gets riled up. She looks very pleased with herself as the rest of them clap her on the back, dragging her with them as they run towards the entrance of the pitch, with Sirius tailing up the rear.

James is up front with Dorcas and he nudges her playfully and says, "Dory, you ought to be captain. That pep talk captained my heart."

"Potter, Potter, _Potter_," she scoffs. "One: that was horrible," she tells him, wagging her finger in an accusatory fashion. "And two: I captain _everyone's_ heart." She licks the finger, touches it to her hip, and makes a sizzling noise. "Get. In. Line."

Dorcas turns to wave at the crowd gathered to watch the match; all very small heads, very tightly packed and high up. James laughs heartily, following her out onto the grassy field.

It's a mild autumn day. The sun barely peeks through poofy clumps of cumulus cloud, the sky spotted with blue patches, the air crisp and fresh. Perfect Quidditch conditions.

From far above, Peter points out James and Sirius to Remus. "Those are my mates, the depressed-looking one and the one laughing. Just there, see? Sirius Black. James Potter."

"What's wrong with him?" asks Remus, watching Sirius turn slowly to join the rest of his teammates, his feet dragging, and his head drooping.

"Family problems, I reckon," Peter shrugs. "He's over-dramatic is his only fault. He's brilliant, same as James."

From somewhere behind them, a group of girls erupts into a fit of giggles so shrill, Remus's ears pop at the sound. He and Peter crane their necks instinctively, and see a girl with fiery red hair, and a blushing face to match. She is amidst the group of other females giggling and possibly pissing themselves at her expense. The only one not laughing is a thin-faced girl with shortly cropped brown hair sitting directly to her left.

"Shut it," the redhead hisses, burying her face in her hands, her voice is muffled. "Not Potter. He's an arse, if you remember."

"He's _got _quite the arse, is all _I _remember," the short-haired friend snorts, looking at her pityingly.

"Alice," the redhead groans. "Is that all you care about?"

The girl, Alice, takes a second to ponder this, holding her chin thoughtfully. "Yes," she concludes. "At this moment in time, I do."

"At this _moment in time_, Frank Longbottom is looking your way, Alice," one of the giggling girls points out, and all heads fly towards the commentator's booth. A slightly hefty boy with intense blue eyes and a tight jaw is gazing back at them, and when he realizes what he is doing, he blushes and turns his head. The girls giggle again, though Alice frowns.

"Longbottom," says Alice, rearranging her scarf around her long neck. "What an unfortunate name. I'd hate to have it."

Remus hasn't been listening in on them, Peter has, though both their heads are pointed towards the pitch. Down below on the grass, the Slytherin team has entered. The Gryffindors, as well as the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, burst into a series of boos and catcalls. From what little Remus can see of the Slytherin team, they look a mean sort. Scowling or sneering, their teeth are all bared. Except one boy towards the back, who looks more reserved, yet haughty. All Remus can see of him is his dark ruffled hair and the way he struts.

"That's Regulus, Sirius' brother," Peter shouts over the booing, having followed Remus' line of vision.

"I can see the resemblance," Remus remarks.

"No, you can't," Peter assures him, shaking his head soberly. "Or else, Sirius can't know you can."

Peter stares at him. Big, brown eyes; double chin; greasy blonde hair; all are too close to Remus' face. "I understand," says Remus, staring back.

The players are falling into place. A short woman with spiky black hair carries a heavy trunk out onto the field and places it before the players, all hovering with one leg over their brooms. She then commands Regulus Black to shake hands with James (both glaring daggers at each other, and James most likely threatening something), and Sirius shakes hands with the Slytherin Keeper, and so do both team captains ("That's Caradoc Dearborn, he scares me!").

The trunk is opened. Several compartments inside are rattling around viciously, as if holding back some rare type of creature. And then, all of a sudden, the woman opens each compartment and out flies two heavy balls are released into the air, followed by a larger, reddish one, and the players are kicking up and lifting from the ground, and in a whirlwind of beating bats and bristly brooms, the game has begun.

Remus jumps as, over a load speaker, a voice cries out: "Let the game begin!" And he looks toward the source, to find it isn't a loud speaker at all, but merely Frank Longbottom (the boy with the unfortunate name) with a wand pointed at his throat, sitting in the little booth separate from their compartment. Remus recognizes Professor McGonagall sitting next to him, her mouth and brow as straight and stern-looking as ever.

"Uh, Peter?" asks Remus, feeling very small all of a sudden.

"Hm?"

"Can you explain to me what is going on?"

"_What_? You don't _know_?"

"Er—no. Grew up with Muggles. And my dad doesn't like sports."

"Well, I'll tell you all you need to know!" Peter is eager. "There are several things happening at once in Quidditch," he shouts to Remus, eyes glued to the match and eagerness ebbing in his tone. "Go, go!" he eggs on a passing pair of chasers tailing a Slytherin. "We've got the chasers, beaters, with the bats, see, and one keeper and one seeker. The chasers pass about the biggest ball, the Quaffle, the reddish one, and try and score with it. Go, GO, GRYFFINDOR! YEAH!"

"Basketball on broomsticks with six hoops," Remus mutters wildly to himself, finding his eyes training on a set of Gryffindor chasers, who have just scored on Slytherin's keeper. "But also like soccer," he adds to himself. "On broomsticks."

"TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!" Frank Longbottom bellows merrily, receiving a scolding from McGonagall for not being impartial. "Sorry, professor," he says, also magically magnified, and the pitch erupts in giggles. "Ah, sorry 'bout that," Frank tells the audience, grinning in spite of himself. "Back to the match."

"And then, beaters with their Bludgers," Peter adds, gesturing to the burliest members of the team, wielding heavy clubs and beating away the two heavy, iron balls. Yes, iron. And they seemed to be bewitched to fly without any means of propulsion. Dangerous. Highly. Remus hopes they don't fly into the crowd, but thinks they probably do.

His stomach turns over for a Gryffindor chaser who nearly slides off her broom. "Ooh, that was close!" Frank Longbottom commentates. "But Meadowes is back on her broomstick, a fighter as always. Call me, Meadowes!"

Dorcas sticks her tongue out at Frank and swerves forward to avoid a Bludger. She mouths _don't distract me, idiot_ at him and leans backwards, knocking into the Slytherin chaser who has the Quaffle. She weasels her way into grabbing it and dives forward.

"Oh, I'm distracting, am I? Er, sorry, professor," says Frank, then, "something seems to be bothering Black today, his keeping has been shoddy. Narrow misses, like that one there. Ooh, watch out for that Bludger. And there's Captain Caradoc Dearborn beating it away. Good man, Dearborn. Oh, Meadowes attempts to score, but is blocked by the Slytherin keeper, Yaxley. And the score is still ten to nothing, Gryffindor in the lead."

Sirius can't stop watching Regulus. Stupid, stupid Regulus with his stupid face and his stupid, stupid broomstick, which is shiny and brand new, unlike Sirius', which is old, weatherworn and used. Regulus has always been their parents' favorite. This is because Sirius and Regulus are both stars in a constellation but Regulus shines the brightest.

"Obviously no sightings of the Golden Snitch from either seeker," narrates Frank, causing James to shrug in a theatrically large way to demonstrate to the crowd his _utter_ confusion and utmost dedication to the duty of seeking.

"What's the Golden Snitch?" Remus asks Peter blearily, feeling overwhelmed and slightly detached from the game. Everything happening is happening quickly, and he can't seem to keep up.

"Smallest golden ball. It has wings," Peter says. "Seekers job is to seek it out. Haha. Seek. Anyway, it's hard to see. But James is ace at spotting it. The seeker's gotta be the most agile member on the team, and that's James for you."

"Hm," says Remus. Peter likes James and Sirius very much, it's almost comical how he idolizes them. Remus wouldn't put it past the chubby boy to shine their Quidditch-playing shoes after the match is over, most likely with Peter's own spit.

"Once a seeker catches the snitch, the match is won, and finished, a hundred fifty points to Gryffindor," concludes Peter. "Er—to whoever wins. But it's usually Gryffindor," he adds, puffing his chest out proudly. His belly jiggles, diminishing the robust quality he had been hoping for.

"Dearborn misses the Bludger and instead WALLOPS MEADOWES IN THE LEG?" Frank Longbottom booms indignantly. "Are you a team or aren't you?"

Caradoc swoops downward, and grabs Dorcas by the arm, apologizing profusely and wearing an expression heavy with worry. Remus and Peter can see him mouth _Merlin, I'm sorry, oh, Dory, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to_, and her mouth _you fucking idiot, Dearborn. There's gonna be a welt! I can feel it FORMING. You will PAY. _She shrugs him away and grips her broomstick tightly with one hand, her legs wrapping around the bristly part, and then, suddenly, she lunges towards him and snatches up his beater's bat with her free hand.

"TAKE THAT!" Dorcas yells, banging Caradoc's bulging bicep with the bat. He howls in outrage and pain.

"Whoa, not very friendly," says Frank, snorting. "Shouldn't that be a penalty? Yes, no? Anybody? Well. It's not being called. And Meadowes, you've won my heart as usual. Oh what the heck, same to you, Dearborn. Nice biceps, by the way. Ahh, okay, sorry, Professor. Won't happen again."

From the other side of the pitch, Sirius is hovering anxiously on his broom, waiting for something, anything, to come his way. "Don't look at Regulus," he tells himself, aloud, because he doesn't care if anyone sees. "Look anywhere but at Regulus. He is distracting and a nuisance and stupid. Look for... James. No, he's doing that weird intense thing again. Oh, there's Evans, next to Alice, and Peter and..."

Sirius' gaze lands on Remus, though he doesn't know it is Remus. He sees a boy with tangled brown hair, _light_ brown that reflects the gentle sunlight, giving it a honey-like vibe. He looks nice, and neat, and reserved, and uncomfortable yet having the time of his life. "Hey now, who are you?" Sirius' curiosity is peeked. The boy is smiling shyly, watching the spectacle of Meadowes vs. Dearborn: a fight to the finish. Peter laughs next to him, telling him something.

Hold on. If Peter knows him, why doesn't Sirius? Who _is_ this boy? Has this boy, with his honey hair and his uncomfortably comfortable air... has he been strolling around campus all these years, without Sirius knowing him? That couldn't be possible. Sirius should have to yell at him, right away, scold him, how dare he sneak past Sirius' radar when Sirius has made it clear he wants to know everyone. Everyone knows Sirius, and Sirius knows everyone, and that is the Way of Things at Hogwarts for Sirius Black. A lot of all right Slytherins, and sporty Hufflepuffs, and geeky Ravenclaws know Sirius, and yet he hasn't stumbled across this boy who is clearly an acquaintance of Peter's?

What is this madness? How is the sunlight hitting his hair so perfectly, like a sign, or an omen? Could this boy be a figment of Sirius' imagination? Sirius is delirious, that must be it; he is daydreaming about not knowing this boy, this boy who doesn't exist, or is someone else entirely, perhaps Lily Evans, and Sirius needs to snap out of this weird reverie and whatever he is feeling and just wait for something to happen.

He doesn't have time to wait, however.

Because, suddenly, and as if by some twisted sort of clockwork, suddenly Peter and Remus, Evans, Alice and the entire Gryffindor section turn their eyes on him. Peter's mouth is agape with a strangled gasp, Remus' smile dies at the corners of his lips. James is about to tackle Sirius, in a desperate attempt to save him, when a particularly nasty Bludger rears its ugly head. Sirius feels a hard, hollow _WHAM_ echo throughout his skull, and then, darkness.

xXx

The first thing Sirius is aware of when he comes to is the head-splitting pain in between his eyes. He yowls like a dog.

"So he isn't dead," says Peter's voice, sounding relieved, and also like he has a mouthful of Fudge Flies, which he does.

"Probably brain damaged," comes an unfamiliar, quiet tone. It sounds cynical, just slightly, but also concerned, just slightly. It's male.

James' laugh is heard next, a loud piercing noise in his pained head. Sirius cries out, gesturing with his hands for them to _quiet the fuck down_, but keeping his eyes shut. He realizes, vaguely, that he must be in the hospital wing, because this bed is small and has a stiff mattress and the pillows aren't even comfy and it smells of alcohol, and not the good kind that gets you drunk, but the kind that stings your battle wounds.

"Sirius is already brain damaged," explains James. "Nice to meet you, by the way. Welcome to Hogwarts. You're Remus, right? Bloody cool name."

"Thanks," comes the quiet tone. It's like a hum. Sirius unconsciously hums a little to himself. "And yeah, it's Remus," the voice continues, a little perplexed by the sudden humming. "You're James, 'course Peter told me about you."

Sirius squints one eye upon. Everything is blurry. He shuts it again.

"Sirius, are you brain dead?" says James.

"Meh," answers Sirius.

"That Bludger hit pretty hard," notes Peter. "He may be communicating in _meh_s for quite some time."

"Should be entertaining," says Remus.

"Meh!" moans Sirius pleadingly.

"Meh," replies Remus, sympathetically.

"Meh indeed, fellows," agrees James. "Meh indeed."

"For Merlin's sake," says Peter. "You all make no sense."

"Wha' happen at match?" croaks Sirius.

James' expression darkens. "Regulus caught the snitch. Right when you dropped. I caught you, by the way, so you're welcome."

"Thank," says Sirius, holding his shaggy-haired head in his hands.

"So Gryffindor lost," continues Peter dejectedly. He'd had higher hopes for his house team, hopes that have been disappointed and stomped on. "For the first time since you joined the team. But whatever, I'm not complaining, it wasn't Sirius' fault."

"But it _was_," growls James. "He was spacing out. It cost us the match."

"Sorry," says Sirius quietly. "Sorry. Sorry."

xXx

In an attempt to cheer Sirius up, James and Peter had accidentally fallen into the lake on purpose. Promptly sixty seconds afterwards, the Giant Squid had kicked them out.

This is why a soaking James and a soggy Peter join the rest of Gryffindor House for breakfast in the Great Hall. Remus has been sitting with them for the past couple days, since the match and Sirius' head injury. It hadn't been very serious, but he had been in the hospital wing for a night, drinking a disgustingly sour potion meant to regrow lost brain cells, though James insisted the task was an impossible feat for Sirius had lost said imaginary brain cells long ago.

"Come _on_, Sirius," James says for the umpteenth time in a harsh whisper over the basket of muffins. "It's been a week since you-know-what, and Regulus hasn't said a word, has he now?"

"It's only a matter of time," says Sirius, though he seems unconvinced. He glowers at his blueberry muffin, it is untouched and likes taunting him, and then across the hall to Slytherin table.

Regulus is there, listening with rapt attention to someone speaking, and looking irritatingly intelligent. Regulus always looks that way though. Maybe it's the close-set eyes, or the natural largeness of the pupil, or his large chin, which has grown in the past year with puberty. Regulus is a third year, only thirteen, and yet simultaneously appears fifteen, twenty-one and seventy years old. Don't ask why, he just has that ageless look about him.

"He's talking to Snape," Sirius notes bitterly. Remus has to look up at this, keen on putting a face to the name he has heard his roommates curse quite frequently during these past few days. Remus sees Regulus, and then, a sallow-faced boy with an enormous beak of a nose, stringy black curtains of hair and large, dark eyes. He looks intelligent as well, and the two of them seem to be debating something scientific, or else, it just appears that way when two smart people converse.

"I don't get why your brother looks up to him so much," says Peter, around a crunchy mouthful of toast.

"Beats me," snaps Sirius. "All I know is Snape hates me. Regulus likes Snape. Regulus is a follower by nature. He followed me, he follows mum and dad. Soon enough Regulus will hate me, just like Snape. You know what, he probably already does. But. Whatever. I don't care. They can start a We Hate Sirius Club."

"He can't hate you," says James stubbornly. "He tailed you everywhere you went in second year. He idolized you. It was kind of annoying, even."

Sirius rises to his feet, his breakfast left untouched. "I'm going to go over there," he announces brashly.

"What?" chorus James and Peter. Peter shakes his head vehemently while James adds, "don't."

"What will you say?" asks Peter, voicing Remus' unspoken thoughts. Remus isn't quite sure of the situation entirely, but then again, he isn't sure if Peter is either.

"Dunno," admits Sirius. "Whatever comes to mind." He pushes away from the table with his palms and marches across the Great Hall, past Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. He stops short in front of Regulus and Snape.

Peter, James and Remus wait with baited breath. They watch, cringing, though Sirius' back is to them and they cannot read his facial expressions for clues. His palms are resting on the table in front of Regulus. He seems to be ignoring Snape for the most part. Snape watches him, slightly curious, mostly annoyed. He bites his lip, making his nose look larger, if that is even possible. Sirius probably comments on it, by the way Snape's gaze falls, and his tooth slides back into his mouth. He scowls into his cereal.

Regulus is talking now. Haughty, they can all tell, as well as his superiority complex, a back-handed insult, a wisp of a smile, and oh, no. Sirius has Regulus by the collar, shouting and spitting into his face, the words can be heard throughout the entire Great Hall now.

"YOU ARE DEAD TO ME," Sirius screams.

"OWL POST!" Regulus screams back, equally vicious, and smiling, as if this is all some brotherly game to him. Remus wonders for a second if it is.

"DEAD TO ME!" repeats Sirius, flinging away Regulus and storming back across the hall. It's dead silent now, everyone is listening; everyone is confused and shifts awkwardly. The professors, who sit at their long table at the head of the room, exchange worried glances. The Black brothers are at it again.

"Owl post!"

"DEAD!"

"OWLS!"

As if commanded by Regulus' tongue, the swooping noise of wings fills the Great Hall, as the usual owls fly in through the rafters, carrying the morning's post and Prophet.

Sirius, seething, slams into his seat next to James and across from Remus, and grabs his untouched muffin and hurls it across the room in his fury. It hits a Ravenclaw named Lovegood in the head, and he blinks, picks it up and declares it sent from the gods as a sign that a Nargle Rebellion is afoot. Lovegood is _unique_ that way. At least Sirius didn't hit a Prefect.

"What has he done now?" Peter asks cautiously.

"What was 'owl post' all about?" seconds James, as his copy of the Daily Prophet falls into his cereal bowl. "Christ. Ruddy owls. I was going to finish that."

"You'll bloody well _see_," seethes Sirius, and here it comes.

An elegant-looking barn owl with neat feathers swoops down and lands on Sirius' shoulder like a parrot with its pirate. It's talons bear into his flesh painfully, and it nips at the bandage around his forehead in annoyance. Sirius grumbles and pulls the bright red envelope from the owl's leg and sets it gingerly on the table before him, bracing himself as if it were a bomb. And oh, it definitely is.

"Merlin," breathes Peter.

"Run," orders James, urgently. "Now. Sirius. Take it and run."

"No," says Sirius pathetically, though he looks like he's considering it. "I can't. It's too late now," as he finishes these words, a great roar erupts from the red envelope and he closes his eyes. The letter folds itself into a paper mouth, with teeth and a snake-like tongue and screams out a letter. Written by Mrs. Black. The Great Hall falls silent once again.

"_SIRIUS BLACK_!" it has a shrill, overbearing voice. Remus feels even himself go red, mirroring Sirius' shade. "HERE I WAS, THINKING YOU COULDN'T POSSIBLY BE MORE OF A _DISGRACE_ TO THE _SACRED_, AND EVER _NOBLE_ HOUSE OF BLACK. AND YET, REGULUS INFORMS ME OF YOUR LATEST _ACT OF DEFIANCE. _I CANNOT SAY I'M IN THE LEAST BIT SURPRISED, YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN A REBELLIOUS INSULT TO MY NAME. WHAT I AM, SIMPLY, IS FURIOUS. YOU WILL _NOT_ CONTINUE TO HARBOR ANY SORT OF _RELATIONSHIP_ WITH ANY SORT OF PERSON OF LOW BLOOD STATUS, MALE OR FEMALE, THOUGH I DOUBT IT'S THE LATTER, SEEING AS YOU'RE A DISGRACEFUL SHIRTLIFTER—"

Sirius might be crying, he can't really tell. His eyes are dry and squinted shut but he might be crying anyway. Remus and James and Peter have all closed their eyes in respect for their friend.

"AND SEEING AS THE MCKINNONS ARE KNOWN BLOOD TRAITORS—"

Over at the Ravenclaw table, Martin McKinnon goes simultaneously purple and white as all eyes fall on him.

"—I CANNOT HAVE YOU EMBARRASSING ME ANYMORE. NEED I BE FORCED TO MARRY YOU TO A _RESPECTABLE PURBLOOD_ _WOMAN_?" She emphasizes each word severely. "PERHAPS TAKE YOU OUT OF HOGWARTS AND HOMESCHOOL YOU? WELL, IF YOU CONTINUE TO ACT ON YOUR _REPULSIVE_ IMPULSES, I WILL HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE." There is a curt pause, and next the shrill voice is quieter, but her words still carry the same sting. "Your father and I ask you _not_ to attend this year's Christmas party. And in fact, would wish you to stay at Hogwarts for the entire holiday. That's all."

The letter explodes in Sirius' face, and that's when the different sections of the Great Hall react in such cliché and predictable ways that Remus wants to throttle someone. Preferably Mrs. Black. The Slytherin table bursts into bouts of sneering, mean laughter; they catcall names at him, as well as McKinnon. It isn't just the Slytherins, either. At the Ravenclaw table, the students seem to shift, allowing a wide gap in between themselves and Martin McKinnon. Suddenly McKinnon springs to his feet and runs from the hall, his eyebrows furrowed and his lip quivering. Remus wonders vaguely where Kingsley is. The Hufflepuffs are mostly silent, but few join in to the yelling, mostly comments about what exactly McKinnon and Black had done, or "I saw what happened," and describing highly pornographic events that have never actually happened and probably, hopefully, never will.

"Is it true, Black?" Frank Longbottom asks cautiously from across the Gryffindor table. Dorcas Meadowes jabs him in the ribs and glares.

"Sorta," says Sirius, weakly. He opens his eyes finally. They are a darkened grey like clouds threatening a storm. "I dunno," he admits, and then he is standing. He hovers there, unable to move.

"But you're a shirtlifter then?" urges Frank, not with malice but with irritating curiosity, bordering on _why are you doing this, Frank_?

Caradoc says, "Frank, stop it."

"He's going to cry," observes Alice.

"Black wouldn't cry," Dorcas says uncertainly, watching Sirius closely.

"You're all making it worse," Lily Evans decides angrily.

"Shut up, everyone," says James. "Sirius, mate, it's okay, you just—"

A loud shout from Yaxley and several other Slytherins breaks through the tiny barrier against Sirius' feelings that has just slowly been weakened by his fellow Gryffindors' words. Sirius never wants to hear the word again. It means cigarette, but it also means a gay person.

"FAGGOT!"

Sirius wants to die. His toes curl in his shoes, the entire Great Hall bores their eyes into his, and now the tears are breaking the barrier, and he makes an angry strangled sound and turns on his heel and flees, feeling entirely un-Sirius-like, and un-Gryffindor-like, and un-manly-like, and so very unlike everything besides a freak.

From the professor's table, Dumbledore stands quickly, a vein pulsating in his forehead. He knows a bit of how Sirius feels, and he is just making his way towards the door when he spots James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Lily Evans and Remus Lupin springing to their feet and sprinting after Sirius, with Remus and James in the lead. Dumbledore smiles, and then it falls away again as he turns narrowed eyes on the jeering Slytherins.

Minerva McGonagall's shout of: "FIFTY POINTS FROM SLYTHERIN!" silences the hall for good, and Dumbledore is very thankful for her. He hates to yell, himself. He is also very thankful that Sirius Black has such good friends.

xXx

They find him in the first secluded corridor they come across.

"I'm not gay," he says stubbornly, then coughs violently. He's trying to cough away his tears; this is his manly strategy and it usually works, but today he feels ridiculous even trying. "I like girls. That was _one_ time, I liked _one_ bloke. And look where it _fucking_ got me!" he shouts the last, kicking the wall in with his knee. "FUCK!" he adds, louder.

"We know," says James. He stands somewhat in front of Lily, Remus and Peter, acting as guard. "Sirius, _I_ know."

"I hate Regulus," he bites out, his fists against the plain stone wall.

"You should," pipes up Remus.

"I _do_," says Sirius.

"It's okay to like other blokes," says Lily.

"Evidently it's _not_!" Sirius could laugh, but he's trying so hard to cough, and also undeniably crying, so he cannot even think about laughing. He sniffs, hard. It's gross. Everything about today is horrible. Worst day. Ever. "And I DON'T!" he reminds Lily. "Why are you even _here_?" he demands. "We're not even _close_."

She shrugs. "I've known you almost four years, Black. I've grown accustomed to seeing you laugh, so when you cry, it's kind of sad and I want to make you laugh again. And I know that sounds hopelessly girly, but I _am _a girl, anyway."

"Ugh," says Sirius, ignoring Lily. "I'm not gay. I'm not into blokes. I like girls. Birds. Girls. Here, Evans, you're a girl, let me prove it to you—"

"No way in hell, Black," Lily snaps, folding her arms in protection and taking a step back. Remus recognizes her, then, as the redhead from the Quidditch match. He looks at her for a moment. He sees a slender girl with a splash of freckles across her pale face, and her deep red hair is plaited down her back. She has bangs. She's taller than him. He looks away. She's a quiet sort of pretty, he thinks. One that doesn't jump out at you and cause you to start stammering like a fool. Though, that happens to James anyway. But what Remus doesn't know about Lily Evans is that if you look at her for longer, and start to memorize every freckle in that splash on her face, you start to notice that she really is, she truly is gorgeous, every inch of her. And radiant, like the sun, and alive like fire. Remus doesn't notice. James, on the other hand, can't stop noticing.

"_Am_ I gay?" asks Sirius suddenly, as if considering for the first time that this might be an option. "I don't know," he decides. "Ugh."

"Ugh," says Remus, fed up and finally going to do something about it.

Sirius rounds on him, snorting harshly. "What are _you_ ugh_-_ing for?"

Remus frowns, thinking. "I've known you for, what, three days," he says, carefully choosing his words. He truly hates situations like this, where other people are crying, but only because it's dreadfully disheartening and he doesn't know how to comfort anyone. "And in these three days, you've—you've been a... a _handful_."

"A handful? What are you, my nanny?"

"Honestly, you're a mess," Remus continues, his tone a bit angry, because if that's the only way to reach Sirius Black, Remus is going to get angry. "I want to know how happy you can be, so quit blubbering. I don't bloody well _care_ if you like girls or blokes. Or both. Or neither! You're being horribly dramatic. And I _know_, what just happened was horrible and cruel, and you'll be teased for eternity, and I'm really, really sorry about that. But please, cry about being teased. Don't cry about being gay. Because there's nothing wrong with the latter and everything wrong with the former."

And Remus takes a couple steps forward, puts his hand on Sirius' shoulder for a split second, then removes it immediately and stammers for about two seconds, then leaps back as if electrified, nods to each of them in turn, gives a weak smile and turns on his heel to go.

There is a pronounced moment after in which the remaining four are silent. James looks to Lily, who looks back, forgetting that she can't start looking at James Potter or else she'll start to _notice _things about him, too. Peter looks to Sirius who sinks to his knees dejectedly.

He feels like a brightly-colored t-shirt that's been washed a million times in one night, perhaps in a desperate attempt at removing a stain, and the stain has come out, but the t-shirt has faded. All the color has drained from him at Remus' words, and the other students' taunts, and he feels done, finished, irritated and humiliated beyond belief. "Can I cry about being teased now?" he whimpers to the cold stone floor.


End file.
